


A Hanukkah Miracle

by SNQA



Category: Homeland
Genre: Advent Calendar, F/M, Fluff, Gratuitous Smut, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SNQA/pseuds/SNQA
Summary: Saul teaches Franny about Hanukkah.  Carrie eats ice cream. ADVENT CALENDAR STORY FOR DECEMBER 23





	

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to my whispering angel editors and collaborators, Leblanc1 and Ascloseasthis. 
> 
> And a special thank you to my smut ghostwriter, Leblanc1, for making this holiday smut extra smutty.
> 
> *Ben and Jerry's is a leading American ice cream brand, well known for their unique flavors and names.
> 
> Happy holidays!!!

 

“Mommy, Peter, what's Hanukkah?” Franny asks, while coloring an angel in her Christmas coloring book at the dining room table.

  
Carrie looks over the top of her laptop screen from the sofa where she and Quinn are sitting. “Hanukkah? Why are you asking about that, sweetie?”

  
“Sarah from school told me that she doesn't believe in Christmas because she's Jewish, and that she celebrates Hanukkah instead.”

  
Carrie nods thoughtfully. “Well, it's a Jewish holiday where kids get presents. Kinda like Christmas.”

  
“Does Santa bring them?” Franny asks, her blue eyes wide and a little worried.

  
“No, Franny. Um, there’s this candle thing and, shi— shoot. I can’t remember what it’s called.”

  
Quinn, head ducked while reading his book, _Healing the Angry Brain_ , mutters, “Menorah, Carrie.”

  
“Right. Right! It’s an ancient story, Franny. The Syrian king wasn’t nice to the Jews, or something—”

  
Quinn finally engages, placing his book on his lap and crossing his arms over his chest, regarding Carrie with a patronizing smirk. “It’s like Groundhog Day over there, Franny. Mean Syrian dictators… let me tell you a story about a man named Assad—”

  
“ _Anyway_ ,” Carrie interjects with a pointed look, “they didn’t have enough oil for the candelabra-Menorah thing.”

  
“But why do Jewish kids get eight nights of presents?” Franny pouts.

  
Carrie pauses, realizing that she has no answer. “Well, that's a good question. Quinn? A little help here.”

  
“I'm lucky if I know what day of the week it is, Carrie. You’re asking the guy with the stroked-out brain?”

  
“Your memory was just _fine_ last night when you were whining about your purported lack of BJs,” Carrie flares.

  
“What's a BJ?” Franny asks, a green crayon clasped in her hand.

  
“Ben and Jerry’s!” Quinn and Carrie shout out in unison, turning to face each other. Quinn's surprised expression meets Carrie's smug smile.

  
“For real?” Franny asks doubtfully, her eyes narrowing.

  
“Yes,” they say it together, again without pause.

  
“I want some BJ, too! Please, Mommy?”

  
“No!” Quinn snaps, leaning forward, throwing his book on the coffee table.

  
“You can have ice cream after dinner... if you're good,” Carrie says calmly, appeasing her clamorous daughter. “And just say ice cream, okay Franny? Not BJ.”

  
“Why?”

  
“Because some people like Haagen Dazs,” Quinn says authoritatively before sliding closer to Carrie and whispering in her ear. “ _I've_ been good. Very good, in fact,” Quinn says, slurring slightly, his hand softly caressing her arm.

  
He hesitates briefly, pondering, as he tilts his head minutely, “how did you know what I was going to say, by the way?”

  
“I have superpowers, haven’t you heard? I can read your mind. Or we’re soulmates. Meant to be.”

  
“Is there a third option?”

  
“Nope. Stop denying it. You and I are fate, Quinn. Destiny. Kismet. Get with the program.”

  
Quinn rolls his eyes and takes a gulp from his mug before letting his head fall contentedly onto Carrie’s shoulder.

  
“Mommy, can we celebrate Hanukkah, too?”

  
“Actually, I have a better idea, sweetie. You remember my friend Saul, right?”

  
“No.”

  
“Well, he remembers _you_.” Carrie smiles at Franny, ignoring Quinn’s snort. “Why don’t we invite him over for dinner and he can tell you _all_ about the story of Hanukkah.”

  
“Will he bring me a present?” Franny asks excitedly.

  
“Sure,” Carrie declares. “I bet he brings you one of those cool Hanukkah spinning toys.”

  
“That’s all?” she frowns, her disappointment apparent.

  
“Christ, Carrie, just Google it,” Quinn says, sitting up slowly. “The last time we had dinner with Saul, he spent the night trying to convince you to come back to the CIA with a glob of guacamole hanging off his beard.”

  
“Ewww. Beards are gross,” Franny squeals.

  
“Saul's beard _is_ gross. Mine’s super cool, though, right Franny-cakes?”

  
“Quinn, the five whiskers coming out of your chin is _not_ a beard,” Carrie mocks.

  
“Oh, really? I didn't hear any complaints the other night when you said it was tickling your… lips,” Quinn chuckles.

  
Carrie’s eyes narrow as she regards Quinn carefully before turning her attention to the mug in Quinn's hand. “Quinn, what are you drinking?” Carrie asks, her brow furrowed.

  
“The eggnog that you made. It’s excellent, by the way.”

  
“How much have you had?”

  
“I dunno? Three, four.”

  
“And did you take your pain meds?”

  
“Yup.”

  
“Jesus, Quinn! That eggnog has alcohol in it. You’re not supposed to mix that with your medication.”

  
“Fudge me.” Quinn declares, censoring himself for Franny’s benefit. “ _That_ explains the ugly little red-haired angel-man flying around the room.”

  
Franny giggles, gazing upward. “There are no red-haired angels up there, Peter!”

  
“Carrie, Saul doesn't know you have a kid.”

  
“What?” Carrie says, her head rearing indignantly. “Of course he does.”

  
“Quick, Franny! I think he just flew behind the curtains,” Quinn exclaims as Franny springs up off of her chair to peak behind the curtains.

  
“No. He's not there either. Stop teasing, Peter,” Franny giggles.

  
Carrie, utterly charmed despite herself, nevertheless has an agenda. “Quinn, focus. Franny should learn about this from one of her elders. These are the kinds of stories that are handed down from generation to generation. If we want to teach her about other cultures and religions, what better way than to have—”

  
“Okay.” Quinn interrupts, “I get it. But I guarantee Saul has no idea who Franny is.”

  
“You're wrong, Quinn, as usual.”

  
“How about a little wager then? If I'm right, I get… Ben and Jerry's.”

  
“Fine! And what do I get _when_ I prove that I'm right?” Carrie smiles confidently.

  
“I'll kiss your cat.”

  
“Peter. You're so silly. We don't have a cat!” Franny giggles.

  
“But Mommy does have a…”

  
“Okay, okay, enough! Deal!” Carrie exclaims, picking up her phone.

  
“Hi Saul, it's Carrie… yes, Elizabeth is fine. Actually, I'm calling to invite you over for dinner tonight. It's the first night of Hanukkah, right? Well, I thought it would be nice if you could teach Franny about the holiday… Frances… my kid. Yeah, my kid—”

  
As Carrie stumbles, Quinn mouths “told you,” and she kicks his calf in retaliation.

  
“Great! Six o’clock? See you then.”

  
As she rings off, Quinn smugly places his feet on the coffee table and folds his hands behind his neck.

  
“He was joking, I'm sure…” Carrie says, her confidence evaporating quickly.

  
Quinn looks towards the ceiling and begins swatting at the air.

  
“Hey, Franny-pie. That annoying ginger angel’s still flying around. Maybe you can get the Elf On The Shelf from your room to capture it,” Quinn says, giving Carrie a wink and a half-smile.

  
“Okay!” Franny hops off her chair and bounds up the stairs like a girl on a mission.

  
“Carrie, when has Saul ever joked about anything?”

  
“Well...”

  
“I'm waiting.”

  
“How about the time when…”

  
“Superpowers, Carrie. C’mon.”

  
“Fuck, Quinn. Give me a second to think.”

  
“Oh, I remember,” Quinn responds. “How ‘bout the time Allison tried to kill you and he wouldn't help?”

  
“Quinn…”

  
“Or wait, I have a better one. Remember the time when he got you kidnapped, then ordered me to stay back? That was a good one.”

  
“Quinn!”

  
“This one’s my favorite. How about when he had you committed to a mental hospital? Saul's freakin’ hilarious.”

  
“Your memory is excellent now. And since when are you a comedian?”

  
“I've always been funny. I'm extremely funny.”

  
“That's a matter of opinion,” Carrie angles her head, smiling wryly.

  
——

  
At six-thirty, there's a knock at the door.

  
“Carrie. Peter. I got stuck at this holiday work party. They had this fantastic guacamole dip.”

  
“Yes, we can see.” Carrie remarks, rolling her eyes in Quinn's direction.

  
“So, where is Sir Francis?”

  
“Here I am!” Franny comes joyfully running to greet Saul in the foyer.

  
Saul squats down to Franny’s eye level, his knees creaking. “But you're a girl! Francis is a boy’s name.”

  
“I'm not a boy!” Franny pouts, her arms defiantly crossing over her chest.

  
“Saul, we call her Franny. She's named after my father,” Carrie explains.

  
“Well, you are a pretty little girl. Where did you get that beautiful red hair? Not from your parents, obviously.”

  
“Mommy says I have my daddy's hair.”

  
“No, see, your daddy has brown hair,” Saul says looking over at Quinn who has returned to the sofa with an eggnog refill.

  
“Ha!” Quinn exclaims.

  
Saul slowly stands, groaning and grabbing onto Carrie’s arm for support. “I think you need to get her eyes examined. She may be colorblind,” he whispers.

  
“Saul! Quinn isn't her father. Brody…” she mutters, her eyebrows raised, ignoring Quinn’s pointed cough across the room.

  
Saul looks over at Quinn, then Franny, his face scrunched with confusion.

  
“Franny, why don't you take Saul over to the sofa so you can talk? Quinn and I have to finish making dinner… Quinn?”

  
Franny leads Saul to the sofa, while Carrie grabs Quinn by the sleeve of his shirt and drags him into the kitchen. They listen by the door.

  
“Fanny, Hanukkah is called the Festival of Lights because a long time ago, the Jewish people were slaves in Egypt. Then there's something about... blood and locusts.” Saul looks to the ceiling, his brow furrowed, trying to remember the correct story. “Matzoh! They had to eat matzoh. Oh wait, wrong holiday.”

  
——

  
“You sure Saul wasn't the one who had the stroke? Or your eggnog?” Quinn mumbles into the side of Carrie’s neck as his hand travels around her hip.

  
“Shit. He must be drunk... Quinn, stop. We can’t.”

  
“We can. We are.”

  
——

  
“Okay, Frankie. There once was a Jewish boy named David and he had to fight a giant named Goliath. There's a burning bush and... no, that's not right either,” Saul strokes his beard, trying to recollect, distractedly pulling out some of the guacamole that had found its way in there earlier in the evening.

  
——

  
“Speaking of burning bushes, I’ve got a great joke. A prostitute walks into a bar...” Carrie’s put-upon groan turns to arousal as Quinn’s lips trace the line of her neck, gently landing behind her ear. “See, I’m funny as fuck,” he whispers, pulling her body to his while he cups her ass.

  
“Quinn!”

  
“This could take a while, Carrie. I think we have time for that Ben and Jerry's now.”

  
“Shhhh! Oh, my God, Quinn, that’s...” Carrie exhales.

  
——

  
“Okay, I got it now. Hanukkah celebrates the miraculous destruction of the six-fingered man in Argentina. The story begins with this beautiful princess named Buttercup, who is forced to marry an evil prince. But a brave and handsome Spaniard, who can sword fight both left and right handed, rescues her. I think the giant is in this story, too,” Saul explains, his confusion becoming even more apparent.

  
——

  
“Six fingers?” Carrie exhales, as Quinn lips travel from her throat to the top of her breasts. He unbuttons her blouse with one hand. She considers the possibilities. “What a waste. But it could be fun.”

  
“It's not how many fingers, it's how you use them.” Quinn starts to slowly move his hand up Carrie’s skirt, caressing her thighs as he goes. When he reaches her panties, he pulls them smoothly down around her knees and gently pushes her back against the refrigerator, casually kicking a nearby stool against the kitchen door with his leg.

  
“See. Just two fingers can get the job done,” he says in a hushed voice, as he carefully slips his fingers to the very tip of where she wants him to be. And stops. When she moans impatiently, he kisses her delicately and precisely, teasing. When she tries to deepen it, he stops, his head backing slightly, and smiles, gazing into her eyes with semi-drunk devotion.

  
“Quinn, c’mon. We don’t have much time.”

  
He touches his middle finger to her clit. And stops. “Tell me I’m funny.”

  
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Quinn. You’re funny. Funny as fuck— just— oh my god. Can we just do this?”

  
“ _How_ funny? I need names.”

  
“Names?”

  
“Names,” he says, circling her clit briefly. And stops.

  
Carrie sighs with erotic annoyance, a flush going over her cheeks. “I don’t know. Aziz Ansari funny. Or Seth Meyers. Jesus, Quinn,” but it earns her one finger that Quinn slowly slides inside her now-slick passage. And stops.

  
“Jesus wasn't exactly known for his stand-up, and I don’t do nerdy, Carrie. You can do better than that. Keep going.”

  
Carrie squirms under his fingers, desperately trying to get friction as her brain flails into the smut potential of hot comedians. “Fuck you, Quinn. Ummm. Bill Maher.”

  
He rewards her by sliding another finger inside her as his thumb makes contact with her clit three times. And stops. Carrie squeals and he places his free hand over her mouth to muffle her. “Close. Smart _and_ funny, but he’s short.”

  
Carrie’s had enough as one hand flies to his wrist in a desperate attempt to make him move. “Nope,” he says, pressing his thumb again for good measure but keeping his wrist frozen. “Think alpha, Mathison. You’ve got this,” this time circling five times. And stops.

  
Carrie’s head lolls back in frustrated passion before rearing up seconds later. “I’ve got it.”

  
“Yeah?”

  
“The Rock”

  
“See. Just like that. One hand can get the job done,” he says seductively, carefully slipping a third finger inside of her. “And a thumb, too.”

  
“Oh, god. Quinn,” Carrie moans softly as she spreads her legs, giving Quinn room to play. “Please. Don't stop,” she mutters, breathing rapidly as her head falls back, her eyes closed, as he finally brings her over the edge.

  
——

  
“No, that's not right either.” Saul scratches his head.

  
“Saul?”

  
“Yes, Frangi?”

  
Franny opens the laptop on the coffee table, starts typing, then reads aloud.

  
“Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday co-mmem-or-ating the re-ded-i-cation of the Holy Temple in Jer-u-se-lem…”

  
“Oh my god. Carrie, she's a genius! She can read already?” Saul hollers toward the kitchen.

  
Carrie and Quinn emerge from the kitchen, disheveled and flushed.

  
“Yes. She's pretty advanced for her age,” Carrie beams, discreetly readjusting her skirt.

  
“Amazing!” Saul turns back to Franny, the wheels spinning wildly in his head.

  
“Felicity, I have some important questions for you. What if you were playing hide and seek with a friend and she didn’t come out? Peter tried to help you find her but told you she was gone, what would you do?”

  
“I’d look again, silly. Peter’s brain is all out stroked.”

  
“Excellent. If there was a boy in your class who made repetitive twitching motions with his fingers during circle time, what would you do?”

  
“That’s easy. I’d try to figure out what he’s trying to say with his fingers. And I’d tell his mommy he needs Ritalin.”

  
“Perfect. And if you want to collect Pokie Mans—”

  
“Pokemon.”

  
“Pokemon. If you wanted to collect the most Pokemon in the smallest area possible, what would you do?”

  
“Create an alcoholism based on past Pokemon clusters, of course. Mommy did it with floor tiles to save Peter in Berlin.”

  
“You mean an algorithm, sweetheart,” Carrie proudly interjects, correcting her daughter.

  
“Franny, what if you could save millions of lives, defeat bad guys and bestow democracy all around the world? Would you do it?”

  
“Saul?” Carrie questions plaintively, bewildered.

  
“At least he got her name right,” Quinn says from the corner with a sardonic smile.

  
“I dunno...” Franny replies doubtfully to Saul.

  
“I would give you _complete_ autonomy. You could design your own mission.”

  
“Okay.” Franny shrugs her shoulders. “But I need a present. Did you bring one of those spinning toys for me to play with?”

  
“I did.” Saul pulls the small toy out of his pocket and hands it to Franny. “It's called a dreidel.”

  
“Yay! Thanks!” Franny’s face lights up as she takes the toy from Saul's hand. She leans over and gives him a kiss on his cheek.

  
“No, Franny! Not the beard!” Carrie exclaims, grimacing as she watches the guac smear over Franny’s chin.

  
“Too late.” Quinn mocks.

  
“Can I call you Grandpa Saul?” Franny beams.

  
“Why, yes. I'd love that.” Saul's eyes moisten as he pats Franny’s head. She throws her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.

  
“Quinn. What have I done?” Carrie whispers, horrified.

  
“I dunno. But I won the bet, that's for fuckin’ sure,” Quinn mumbles.

  
Carrie pours Saul a large cup of eggnog and hands it to him.

  
“Saul, umm… we’re having a little problem in the kitchen. We'll be right back.” Carrie grabs Quinn by the hand, leading him out of the room.

  
“This shouldn't take long,” Carrie mutters under her breath.

  
Saul watches as the pair disappear through the door.

  
——

  
“Quinn. What's happening out there?” Carrie asks as she removes a steaming mug of water from the microwave, while Quinn, again, listens by the kitchen door after securing it with a stool.

  
“We've got time. Saul is telling Franny about celebrating Hanukkah when he was a boy… before there was electricity,” Quinn muses, watching Carrie scooping Ben  & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra into a bowl.

  
“Wow. You really are so _not_ funny. Now grab a towel and drop your pants.”

  
“Carrie, what are you doing? We don’t have time for BJ _and_ a BJ.”

  
“Speeding this along. I read an article about this. Now whip it out. Tout de suite.” Carrie backs Quinn against the counter with a hand on his chest. “Trust me.”

  
“You’ve got a mug with boiling water two feet from my dick, Mathison. This isn’t about fuckin’ trust. It’s about self-preservation.”

  
Carrie presses her body against him, her hands framing his face and tilting him toward her lips. She kisses him slowly, open and carnal. When they come up for air, Carrie smiles. “It’s either this or my waterboarding sex fantasy, big guy. You choose.”

  
Perfunctorily, Carrie steps back and drops two oven mitts on the floor, one for each knee, as she sinks down, kneeling in front of Quinn, placing the mug and the bowl beside her on the ground.

  
Carrie’s hands impatiently unbuckle his belt and lower his pants, exposing his already rock-hard cock. She places the towel on top of his boxer-briefs as she gathers her hair in one hand, pushing it away. Quinn’s hands grip the nearby countertop behind him, bracing himself in preparation.

  
Carrie begins to stroke him gently with her free hand, amazed as always by his girth and length. Quinn gasps with appreciation as he watches intently, her delicate hand moving up and down his cock.

  
“So, you don't think we're soulmates?” she whispers as she begins to increase the pressure, sliding her hand faster before ducking her head and licking his cock lazily from base to head.

  
“Carrie, Jesus.” Carrie moves back smiling up at him as her hand slides to his balls, playing with them. “Admit it. All the things we fought through to finally be together.”

  
Carrie casually reaches for the still-steaming mug, stroking him again with her free hand. With a wicked grin, she blows briefly at the hot liquid before taking a healthy sip from the mug and setting it down. His cock twitches with anticipation as she bends down and engulfs just the head with her lips. Her tongue swirls twice as the burning liquid meets his engorged head, causing Quinn to jump slightly and emit a strangled gasp.

  
She pulls away, licking her lips, and stimulating him with her hand again. Quinn groans in frustration. “What the fuck?!”

  
Carrie takes the bowl with her free hand and hands it to Quinn. “Feed me.”

  
“Carrie, what—?”

  
“Quinn, just do it.”

  
Quinn, eyes glazed, obeys, scooping the cold, sticky ice cream onto the spoon. When she looks up at him, lips open, accepting the spoon into her mouth, a flash of pure animal lust shoots through him. This time, she puts the length of his cock fully in her mouth, the frozen dessert meeting his heated flesh. She works him several times, leisurely, before pulling back.

  
“I'm waiting, and we're running out of time,” she says taking in the hot water, smiling up at him over the mug.

  
“Fine! Fate. Destiny. Whatever. Please. The water.”

  
“Say it like you mean it.” She teases him once more, her now-hot mouth meeting his skin as she takes him all the way into her overheated throat, opening it as best she can, pumping him hard at the base of his cock with her hand in a studied rhythm.

  
“Carrie. I love you. I've waited my entire life for you. You're the one. Now will you _please_ keep sucking my dick!”

  
“I love you, too,” Carrie says but she stops once more, tilting up for another bite. Quinn, panting now, gazes at the image of her, hair mussed, face flushed, glistening lips engorged from his cock. He spoons the ice cream into her lips as she catches his wrist with her free hand and slowly licks the spoon clean. Quinn’s brain flashes for a moment as he considers shoving himself into her mouth, and he struggles for control, letting the bowl clatter to the counter.  
  
This time when she surrounds his cock it’s her own arousal that allows her to take almost all of him in, down her throat, as he groans in gratitude.

  
“Jesus, Carrie,” he calls out. “We're soulmates, everything... This feels so fucking incredible.” His hands surround her head, fingers burying into her hair as he guides her to quicken her pace and finish him off.

  
When he explodes in her mouth, she swallows his seed as fast as she can, but it overflows around her lips and down her chin. Still, she stays with him through the aftershocks, licking and gently settling him as he sinks to the floor, rattling and almost spilling the mug.

  
Quinn, a mess of alpha languid relief, gazes at Carrie as she wipes her face with the towel. She leans over him, kissing him softly, ridiculously chaste, and says, “now that we’ve sorted that out…” She lifts herself off of the floor and goes to the sink to wash her hands. She takes another towel from the counter to dry them, then throws it to Quinn.

  
“If I'm going to do that again, I'll need some thicker oven mitts. Fuck, my knees hurt!”

  
Carrie picks up the oven mitts from the floor, slides them onto her hands, and removes the warm casserole out of the oven. “Quinn, can you grab the salad? It's in the fridge.”

  
Quinn's remains sitting, dazed, in the same spot with a frozen grin on his face, his pants down around his knees.

  
“Quinn? Come on! Fun’s over. Pull up your pants and get the salad. We've got to rescue Franny from Saul.”

  
“Carrie?” Quinn says as he stands, pulling up his pants. “I meant what I said, you know.”

  
“I know. Now let's go get this over with,” she smiles, then places a soft kiss on his lips.

  
Carrie leaves the kitchen and puts the food on the dining room table.

  
“Dinner’s ready!” She turns toward the living room, suddenly noticing that Franny has decorated Saul's beard with pink and green glitter. “What the fu...!? Franny, what did you do to Saul?”

  
“Grandpa Saul told me I could,” Franny beams proudly.

  
“It's fine, Carrie. I was just telling Frances here about the present I wanted for Hanukkah when I was—”

  
“Holy fuck!” Quinn blurts out as he enters the room and sees Saul.

  
“Mommy, why are your knees all red? And Peter, your pants are wet.”

  
“Ah, well... Quinn was trying to eat the Ben and Jerry's…”

  
“Because I won the bet,” Quinn smugly interjects.

  
“...and he dropped it on his pants and on the floor, so I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the mess. So... yeah.”

  
“Sorry, Franny-muffin. You'll have to eat Mommy’s yummy brownies for dessert,” Quinn says with a rueful grin.

  
“Yum! Brownies!”

  
Quinn takes Carrie’s hand in his, their eyes meeting as they share a knowing smile.

  
Saul looks at Carrie and Quinn and starts to laugh. “Beshert,” Saul utters, a content smile crossing his lips. “Soulmates.”

  
“Grandpa Saul?”

  
“Yes, Franny.”

  
“What do these letters on the dreidel mean?”

  
“They're Hebrew letters which stands for the phrase ‘Nes Gadol Hayah Sham. A great miracle happened there.’”

 

 

 THE ~~FUCKING~~ FUDGING END!

 

 


End file.
